Enough

I want to be angry with you,

want to rage against the injustices you piled on me,

young and innocent and not knowing any better,

the travesty that passed for love.

But I have known too much rage,

And none of it my own.

Being your daughter was like drowning

in an ocean of vicious toxins

I had never not known.

Now I am on dry land,

gasping sweet life,

and the last drops of your rage have risen

heavenward, weightless;

I want to be angry with you,

but tell me,

do you not think you held enough anger for the both of us?

Enough for our daughters, and our daughter's daughters,

generations into infinity?

In releasing you,

in stepping, dry and warm, into sunshine and solid ground,

I have lost the rage that was your legacy.

Are you worth the agony

of seeking it out again?

I do not think so.